


Start

by yeaka



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blind Date, Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-08
Updated: 2015-12-08
Packaged: 2018-05-05 13:54:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5377673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spock, for some reason, allows his mother to set him up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Start

**Author's Note:**

  * For [plyushka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/plyushka/gifts).



> A/N: Fill for superplyushka’s “Star Trek K/S AU, please! Blind date” request on [my tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Spock arrives at the restaurant in a grey knit sweat, after a call with his mother and the rejecting of many other outfits. Apparently, a suit is too formal, jeans (which he only has from her gifts) too casual, and most of his sweaters too ‘homely.’ This one is less obvious that it’s been knit by a family member and looks like commercial grade, though it fits his form well and the v-neck denotes his Vulcan roots. The black dress pants are from the suit he originally called her in. Forgoing that call might’ve been easier.

Forgoing all of this might’ve been easier. But Spock indulges so little of Amanda’s offerings, and after his last refusal to come home for his birthday, it seemed prudent to do _something_ for her. Even if she—and his clearly begrudging father—did show up on his apartment’s doorstep last week with a fresh cake in hand. 

The restaurant is a reasonably fancy one, with dark, crimson-yellow lighting and a steady, low buzz of quiet conversation. At the concierge desk in the front, Spock announces, “I have a reservation under ‘Spock.’”

The woman, a hefty Tellarite in a tight black-and-white uniform, scans her computer screen before telling him, “We have nothing under that name.” Only then does she actually look at him, sporting a small, tight smile that betrays her native roots: arguments are at the forefront of Tellarite culture.

It’s decidedly different on Vulcan, and Spock keeps his surprise hidden. A moment’s thought prompts him to try, “Mrs. Grayson, perhaps?” 

Failing to stifle a disappointed frown, the host quickly finds it on the terminal and grunts, “Oh. Amanda Grayson? Party of two.” Then she pushes right back from her desk. Spock realizes belatedly that she wasn’t sitting down but is just particularly short, even for a Tellarite. 

As soon as the host is around the other side of her desk, she gestures for him to follow and sets off at a brisk pace, diving into the geometric mess of hardwood table tops and filled black chairs. On one sweep of the room available to him—the bar is set aside by a crosshatched divider wall that makes it difficult to see enough for proper fact gathering—Spock deduces the restaurant is filled to approximately ninety-two percent capacity. Yet the table the host brings him to, far in the back and around a corner, is only next to two empty tables. There’s a lattice-covered wall on one side and a tall window on the other, looking out to the bakery across the street. A small, twisted chandelier provides split lighting. The host gestures Spock to the table, and he takes his seat, illogically relieved to be first.

Perhaps it will give him more time to gather himself, although there is nothing to need gathering. There’s no reason to be nervous. More likely than not, this will be a somewhat awkward affair, but a temporary one that need not ever be repeated. He’ll sit this one through solely for his mother’s sake, then report his disinterest and hope that her ‘you can’t know until you try it’ philosophy will thus be fulfilled. He sits with his back to the corner and faces out to the restaurant to minimize any sudden surprises, such as the unlikely but possible event of his mother dining nearby to spy on him. She might’ve done it if she were alone, but Spock can only hope his father will keep her from such antics. She’s plagued him enough on this visit. 

There’s little to do at the table. It’s a small, round counter. The view offers nothing of interest and no one brings him a menu. This leaves him in an attempted state of pseudo-meditation, though with little success. The immediate future is too uncertain for calmness.

The next person to enter the dining room besides waiting staff is an elderly Bolian that meanders through the tables alone. Spock, whilst having no clear idea of who he’s being set up with, instinctively knows his mother would at least stick to acceptable age parameters for him. He would also not expect a Bolian, as they take to laughter like Grazerites take to grass. Hopefully, she would know him well enough to give him a Vulcan. Unfortunately, Spock appears to be the only Vulcan currently in the restaurant. The Bolian eventually joins a table of humans chattering loudly. 

The next person that comes along draws Spock’s eyes much faster, though he’s just as sure this can’t be his date.

A young human, perhaps Spock’s age, is lead along a similar path as Spock by a Caitian waitress. He’s dressed in dark jeans and a white-button up, with piercing blue eyes and tousled golden hair, striking Spock overall as unreasonably attractive. Beauty is, of course, a thing merely in the eye of the beholder, but Spock imagines it would be difficult to find any audience not appreciative of this particular man’s allure. 

Yet, despite his clear human heritage and overwhelming standardized beauty that should leave him permanently ‘taken’ and far out of both Spock and Amanda’s league, the man is lead right up to Spock’s table. Obvious surprise flickers over his handsome features, but he still pulls out his chair with ease and sprawls right into it with such appalling posture that Spock’s definition of beauty abruptly alters. A radiant smile follows, far too warm for the greeting of a stranger. Clearly, this is a very _human_ human, and not all the strict Vulcan influence Spock would prefer. It leads him to wonder if his mother’s ever listened to him at all. Of course, she has an irritating tendency towards ‘whatever she thinks is best for him.’

The waitress slides two menu dataslates onto the table and purrs in a thick accent, “I will be back in a moment to take your orders.”

Spock nods curtly in acknowledgement, and the other man tells her, “Thank you.” She smiles at him in such a way that confirms Spock’s ‘unreasonably attractive’ judgment.

As soon as the waitress is gone, her tail swaying lazily behind her, the man turns to Spock. His clear eyes make an obvious sweep of Spock’s body, or as much as can be seen over the table, and despite the confusion in them, he greets silkily, “You must be Amanda’s son.”

Spock allows another tight nod. The man chirps, “I’m Jim,” and thrusts out a hand.

Spock eyes the extended hand with a surge of sudden, unseemly dislike. Obviously, this man, Jim, has little experience with Vulcans. Nonetheless, Spock lifts his own hand to it, telling himself it’s for his mother’s sake. The second his fingers slide along Jim’s, a nearly electric shock sparks up his body, and Spock can’t stop the subtle widening of his eyes. Jim gives a little jump, showing that he also felt it. Spock can feel his cheeks already tinting green at the edges and wills them down. His touch telepathy isn’t usually so strong. Jim gives his hand a small squeeze before releasing it, and Spock, with a curious mix of relief and disappointment, lowers his hands back to his lap. 

A little too late, he says, “Spock.” Jim’s lips quirk up at the end. Perhaps he finds it an amusing name. He wouldn’t be the first, though Spock’s never understood why.

“I have to be honest,” Jim starts, which strikes Spock as on odd precursor—he would hope that Jim’s statements not so labeled wouldn’t be predominantly false. “I’m surprised to see a Vulcan—she didn’t mention that.”

Given that species is often the first, if subconscious, observation of a person, Spock lifts an eyebrow. Having never been clear on the details, he asks, “How exactly is it that you know my mother?”

“I don’t,” Jim snorts, shrugging his broad shoulders. “I was at the coffee shop in Starfleet HQ when she came up and started talking to me about my ship. She said her husband was an ambassador, but she didn’t mention from where. A bit of space-talk, and she asked me to have dinner with her son.” 

This is all rather troubling news to Spock, but the first thing he asks with his brow furrowed in disbelief is: “And you _agreed_?”

Jim shrugs, as though a blind date with a complete stranger’s relative isn’t strange in the slightest. He actually manages to keep his large grin. “I like adventure. Besides, your mom made a great case for you.” 

Trying very hard not to blush, Spock falls silent. Jim takes the opportunity to pluck up a menu and start scrolling through the options. Spock follows suit, if only to have something to look at that isn’t _Jim_ and his bizarrely perfect eyes. So far, this has all been one exercise in how disappointingly far to go Spock has to true unemotional logic.

Finding a suitable source of nutrition relatively quickly, (as most of the menu includes meat and is therefore easily dismissed) Spock asks, “Which is ‘your’ ship?”

“The Enterprise,” Jim responds, which has Spock looking sharply up. He stares for a moment while Jim either doesn’t notice or politely pretends not to. Though ‘nicknames’ aren’t the easiest concept for Spock to understand, this is a fairly common one by Earth standards he can put together easily enough. This is the illustrious _James T. Kirk_ , captain of the _USS Enterprise_ , the flagship of the Federation. Spock’s heard, on occasion, rumours of the captain’s reputation, both professionally and personally. What he hadn’t heard but can now see is how young Jim is for such an impressive career.

When Spock provides nothing else, Jim looks over his menu to ask cheerfully, “You’re in the sciences? That’s what your mother said. She mentioned you were considering a career in Starfleet.”

That’s a complicated subject. Picturing Sarek in the back of his mind, whom Spock will have to see when he returns to his apartment, drives Spock to lightly respond, “I am not interested in a recruitment session.”

Jim laughs. It’s a wondrous, hearty sound that makes Spock have to deliberately look away. Out his peripherals, he can see Jim setting the dataslate down on the table. Knowing what he wants, Spock places his down next to it. 

When Jim’s finished, Spock looks back, and Jim hikes his elbows up onto the table, resting his chin on his hands. He asks, “So, are you really the smartest child on Vulcan, or is that just a mother’s love talking?”

Trying very hard not to blush and hoping his mother didn’t really say that, Spock says dryly, “That is greatly exaggerated.”

And then there’s a resulting silence that Spock has no idea how to fill, while Jim seems perfectly content to just look at Spock. Spock, oddly enough, would _like_ to say something, ask something in return, but finds it difficult to start. He has no experience with this sort of thing. So he merely waits for Jim to go on, hoping that he can follow. 

The waitress saves them by returning, asking with her stylus and PADD ready, “Well, what’ll it be?” She asks Jim first, which Spock expected.

Jim answers, “Veggie pizza.” Then he glances at Spock.

Spock announces, “A garden salad.” 

The waitress nods, jots both down, and asks, “And to drink?”

“Water,” Jim says, adding with a quirked grin, “I don’t imagine my Vulcan counterpart would appreciate alcohol.”

Though inwardly surprised and pleased at Jim’s knowledge, Spock says, “You need not abstain on my account.” Although he would certainly prefer Jim sober.

Jim winks and says, “I’m trying to woo you, so I’d better.”

Spock lifts an eyebrow but confirms, “Water.” The waitress adds a note, collects their menus, and leaves again.

And Jim leans back in his chair, demonstrating more horrible posture but looking somehow more tempting than ever. He asks effortlessly, “So, what do Vulcans look for in a mate?”

Spock spends half a second surprised over the crude question, then answers, “Subtlety.” 

Jim laughs again, just as wondrously as the first. He waits until he’s finished to say, “I wasn’t expecting a sense of humour. That’s a pleasant surprise.”

Spock is definitely a bit green across his face. He’s never been accused of having a sense of humour before. If anything, he was attempting to lightly scold Jim. 

Jim simply rolls on, “This whole thing is actually a pleasant surprise. I didn’t know what I was walking into, but you’re very handsome.”

Caught off guard and somewhat disbelieving, Spock replies, “Thank you,” and before he can stop himself, “you are as well.” He feels foolish for it, but Jim’s grin just grows. 

“I wasn’t sure if you considered this pleasant or not; I’m doing all the talking.”

True, but Spock admits, “I merely do not know what to say. This is my first time.”

“Dating a human?” Jim asks, tilting his head to the side.

Spock clarifies, “Dating.”

Jim’s eyes open wide. He looks physically taken aback but quickly recovers and says, “We’ll, I’m honoured then. If I’d known, I would’ve suggested we do something more special.”

“Special?” Spock asks.

Jim shrugs. “Something. Got to a planetarium, or the aquarium, or... maybe beam up to my ship and dine amidst the stars.” He gestures his hand vaguely like any old thing will do, but he smiles as though all the prospects sound good to him. Spock can admit a certain interest in each suggestion. Eating, while a vital part of survival, doesn’t offer many topics of conversation. It would be more valuable to Spock to discuss common stimulus and therefore test the unique dynamics of their interaction, which would be more relevant for day-to-day use than simply throwing generic questions and personal facts at one another. That information is still important, but mutual ground as a base could be beneficial. Each of Jim’s suggestions also has some scientific value.

Instead of voicing all this approval, Spock asks, “Is the Enterprise not in dry dock under maintenance?” That would seem the most likely reason for a star ship captain to be planetside. 

Jim answers, “Yes, but the captain’s mess is working just fine. Then at least we could do something while we wait for our food, like play chess or...” But he doesn’t seem to have any more alternatives and just trails off. 

It’s enough. “You play chess?”

“I just got a 3D board in my ready room,” Jim answers brightly. “I’m still learning, though.”

“I am somewhat well versed in the game.”

Jim’s eyes seem to shine a bit brighter than the chandelier should allow. “Good. Maybe you can teach me a few tricks.”

Spock quietly admits, “I believe I would like that opportunity.”

Over Jim’s shoulder, Spock can see their waitress backing out of the kitchen area, one tray in each hand. Jim asks, somewhat off-topic, “How do you feel about adventures and exploration?”

That sounds wholly un-Vulcan, despite the clench of Spock’s chest. He’s actually more interested in serving aboard a constellation-class exploration vessel than he’d care to admit aloud. His father’s disapproval is, at the moment, the only thing holding him back from that otherwise fairly obtainable goal. After a moment’s thought, Spock carefully words, “I am interested in Starfleet, including its scientific discoveries.”

The waitress reaches their table. She’s barely put Spock’s salad down before Jim asks, “Can we get this to go?” The waitress glances at him in surprise. Spock feels similarly.

With a frown, he asks, “Where are we going?”

Jim answers, smiling like a sun, “Whales or stars—your choice.”


End file.
